A Wish for Us

by Tillie Cole

  “I know she’s not, you prick.” Easton tried to strike me again. I pushed my forearm over his neck, stopping him from moving. “I know she’s not!” I pushed harder, cutting off his breath. “You think I don’t know that? She’s . . .” The truth made me pause. But when I looked into Easton’s eyes, I said, “She’s everything, East. Fucking everything!”

  Easton stilled. I dropped my arm and backed up. Easton was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. His cheeks were red, but the rest of his skin was pale. His eyes were tiny and rimmed with red. Blood from my lip dripped down my chin.

  Easton sagged against the wall, and I looked at him. Really looked at him. Where the colors around him were once bright, a rainbow of neon, now there were only blacks and grays and navy blues.

  “She’s gonna die,” he said quietly, and his face contorted in sadness. I could feel the waves of fear pulsing from his body. His eyes fell on me, but I could tell he wasn’t really seeing me. “She’s fought it for so long. But it’s finally giving up. Her heart.” He met my eyes. “She’s gonna die.”

  “They might get a heart for her.”

  Easton laughed, no humor in his tone. “You know how rare it is for one to become available? The exact match?” I clenched my jaw when I realized I didn’t. Beyond an internet search, I didn’t know anything. Easton slumped down the wall, completely dejected. “Almost never happens.” I sat on the floor too, leaning against my bed. I licked at my lip, tasting nothing but blood.

  “Her body will give up soon,” Easton whispered. His eyes were haunted; it was the only way to describe them. He leaned his head against the wall. “She’s had so many surgeries throughout the years.” He shook his head. “I thought she was getting better. I thought . . .”

  “The valve started to fail,” I said, telling him what he no doubt already knew.

  “What the hell is the world without Bonnie?” My stomach tensed. Because I wouldn’t even let myself think it. A world without Farraday would be . . .

  I shook my head. “She’s strong.” Easton nodded, but I could see he didn’t believe it. “She is.”

  “Bonnie’s strong. But her heart isn’t.” His eyes lost focus. The colors around him deepened even further into darkness. It reminded me of his latest paintings. “She can only be as strong as her heart lets her be.” He sighed and ran his hands down his face. “I knew there was something wrong.” I looked at the unfinished painting on his easel. “I could feel that she was lying. Hiding the truth.” He tapped his head. “Twins.”

  “She wanted to be as normal as she could.”

  Easton’s eyes narrowed on me. “You hated each other.”

  “No. Not really.”

  He shook his head. “She’s too fragile.” The spark of anger that always waited, ready to strike, in my stomach flared to life at his words. Because I knew this was him warning me off her. But it was too late. He didn’t understand me, and he sure as hell didn’t understand me and Bonnie. What we shared. “She doesn’t have the strength to deal with your shit.”

  “She needs me. Wants me.”

  Easton shut his eyes and just breathed.

  “She needs you,” I said, and he tensed. Every muscle in his body pulled tight. “She needs you more than ever.”

  “I know,” he said after several strained seconds. I leaned back against my bed. A huge, crushing weight seemed to lie on my shoulders. Easton sat in silence for so long I didn’t think he would speak again. Until he whispered, “She can’t die.”

  I looked up at Easton, only to see tears fall down his cheeks. My gut clenched, and I felt the same lump I’d been fighting since yesterday block my throat. Easton’s face crumpled. It was one of the first times I’d ever seen him serious. Right now, he was as serious as death.

  “She’s my sister. My twin.” He shook his head. “I can’t, Crom. I can’t be without her.”

  My eyes blurred, but I got up and sat beside him. Easton’s head fell forward and his body shook as he cried. I clenched my jaw, not knowing what the hell to do. It felt like my stomach was ripping open when I let Easton’s words sink in. She can’t die . . .

  I pushed my tongue against my teeth to keep from falling apart too. Easton’s sobs grew louder, my friend losing it as he sat against the wall. I lifted my arm, letting it hover over him, until I laid it around his shoulder and pulled him to my chest. Easton fell against me. I stared across the room at his unfinished painting. At the black swirls and the turbulent paintbrush strokes.

  It was this moment. It was exactly what he was feeling now. He’d known. Known something was wrong with Bonnie, but he hadn’t dared ask. As I stared at the painting, as Easton cried for his twin, I couldn’t help but see Bonnie’s face in my head. Her dark eyes and dark hair. Her pretty face. And her sitting up on that stage, guitar in her hands, violet blue pouring from her mouth. I gasped for breath when pure fear stole all the air in my lungs. Fear that I’d lose her before I truly got the chance to know her. My favorite color ripped from my life. Bonnie taken away before she could leave her fingerprint on the window of the world.

  I shook my head, ignoring the damn tear that fell from the corner of my eye. “She won’t die,” I said, gripping Easton tighter. “She won’t die.”

  My father’s face flashed into my mind, and with it came the reminder of the void his absence had brought, never to be refilled.

  Until Bonnie Farraday walked into my life on a beach in Brighton and started bringing me something I didn’t even know I needed—silver.

  Happiness.

  Her.

  “She won’t die,” I repeated one last time, letting the conviction of those words settle inside me.

  Easton lifted his head ten minutes later. He wiped his eyes with his forearm and stared across at his painting. “I need to go see her.” I nodded, and Easton got to his feet.

  I moved away from the door and sat on my bed. Easton rocked awkwardly on his feet. He scratched the back of his head. “If you’re in, you gotta be all in.” He took a deep breath. “It’s gonna be rough, and she’s gonna need those who love her around her.” Easton’s eyes bored right into mine, a clear challenge. Then his face softened. “She acts tough. She fights hard. But deep down, Bonn is terrified.” He swallowed, and I felt the lump in my throat thicken. “She doesn’t wanna die, Crom. She has so much fucking life in her that if she were to be taken away now . . .”

  When he looked at me again, there was only conviction in his face. “She’s the best of us both. I’ve always known that.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he left the room, leaving the shadow of his blacks and navy blues behind. I wasn’t sure anything else would color this room until Bonnie got the heart she needed.

  I lay, staring at the ceiling, for an hour, before getting up and taking a shower. As the water fell over my head, running down my body and hitting the tiles at my feet, Bonnie’s question wouldn’t leave my head. The one about the unfinished piece I had accidently played that night. The one I hadn’t touched in three years. I laid my forehead against the wall and closed my eyes. But the water from the shower, like rain on the window, like the sound of the tears that fell all those nights ago, brought that piece to my mind.

  Easton’s dark colors danced in my eyes as the piece grew in volume. And I couldn’t shut it off. Like a flood, it stormed the dam, demolishing the walls.

  The shower room was silent, empty but for me this late at night. And I was glad. I was glad as my hands slapped at the tiles when my legs became weak, the music playing in my head, the opening bars crushing my heart. Only now, instead of just my father’s face in my mind, Bonnie’s was there too. I shook my head, trying to get them all to leave me alone. I couldn’t cope with the emotions they brought. The emotions that were too much, too bloody much for me to take.

  Colors burst like fireworks in my head. My stomach tightened, my heart pulled, and my legs gave way. I dropped to the floor, the hot water turning cold as it battered my head in rhythmic beats. And th
en the tears fell. The water and the tears were a blur as they collided and crashed to the floor. Though neither felt cleansing.

  Nothing but the “gift” I’d been given would take these feelings from me. I sat back on my knees and stared down at my hands. They were shaking. They curled into fists, and I wanted to smash them against the tiles. But I didn’t. Because the need to create governed my choices right now. My hands were my tools. They were the only things that could take these emotions away.

  Some saw synesthesia as a God-given gift. Some parts were; that I couldn’t deny. But this part, the part that made my emotions so strong I couldn’t take it, was a curse. I could see them. Feel them. Taste them. And it was too much. As I thought of Bonnie, as I pictured my father that last time I saw him . . . I bent over, the pain in my stomach becoming too much to bear. It was like someone had taken a bat to my ribs, my heart carrying so much sadness it couldn’t cope.

  I took a deep breath and got to my feet. Still wet, I threw my clothes on. And I ran. I ran across the quad to the music building, bursting through the door and into the closest music room. I didn’t even bother with the light. I just sat at the piano and lifted the lid. The moon shone in through the high window, bathing the ivory and black keys in a silver glow.

  Silver.

  It was if my father was watching over me. Showing me the way back to happiness. This—music—my greatest lost love, only found again thanks to one girl in a purple dress.

  She was my God-given gift. The girl that brought me back life.

  My hands splayed on the piano. And, closing my eyes, I started to play. The piece that had inspired my change to dance music flowed out of me as though a prisoner locked inside a cell for too many years to count had been freed. I was lost to the notes. Lost as I replayed my mum walking into my room telling me he was gone. The army officer showing up on our doorstep with a set of dog tags in his hand. And the night I learned he’d gone missing, my heart shattering with regret and pain. The music filled every inch of space, leaving nothing but this piece for me to breathe in. My hands ached as I played and played it again. The new bars of notes pouring from me like they had always been. My hands never faltered even though my heart stuttered. Memories like grenades were thrown at my feet. But my fingers were ready and fought through the minefield.

  Then, when the piece had ended, the sound of gunshots in my head, a goodbye to a fallen soldier, a war hero . . . my hero . . . my hands stilled. My eyes opened, feeling swollen and beaten . . . but I could breathe.

  The colored pattern was imprinted in my mind. A tribute to my dad. Peter Dean.

  “Dad,” I whispered, the word echoing in the room. I leaned my head on the piano and knew, without a doubt, that it was the greatest piece I’d ever composed. Half the heaviness had lifted from inside me. And when I lifted my head, wiping the silent tears from my face, I knew there was someone who needed to hear it.

  I had to play it one more time.

  When she was back, she’d hear it.

  I needed her to hear it.

  I just needed her, full stop.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bonnie

  I was on my bed, listening to my music, when Easton walked in. I sat up, swallowing back the sadness that infused me when I looked at his face.

  I slipped my headphones off and held out my hand. “East,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. I tried to breathe, take full inhales of air, but my lungs would no longer let me. I shifted where I sat, gritting my teeth at the effort it took me to move.

  But when Easton’s hand slipped into mine, I found strength in his touch. He sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes were red and his face was pale.

  “I’m okay,” I said and tried to grip his hand tighter.

  Easton gave me a weak smile. “You don’t lie to me, Bonn. Don’t start now.”

  This time it was me who gave a weak smile. “I’m determined to be,” I said instead.

  “I know.” He moved beside me and we rested our backs against the headboard. I didn’t let go of his hand. Ever since we were kids, holding his hand had given me strength.

  “It’s been ten years,” he said, his voice graveled. I nodded. Ten years since the problems in my heart had been found. Easton’s eyes shone with . . . pride? “You’ve fought hard, Bonn.”

  I couldn’t stop my eyes filling with water. “You have too.”

  Easton gave me a mocking laugh. But I meant it. “Not like you,” he said. He sighed and tapped his head. “I’m convinced that my issues up here are directly linked to your heart.” My stomach fell. “I think when we were created, I was linked to you somehow. When your heart started failing, so did my brain.”

  I moved until I sat in front of him. I put my hands on his cheeks. “They’re not linked, East. You’re doing well.” I dropped my hand to the leather cuff he always wore. I pushed it down his arm until his scar became visible. Easton clenched his jaw when I ran my fingers over the raised flesh.

  A flash of pain burst in my chest. “You have to promise me, East.” I stared into his blue eyes. “Promise me that you’ll stay strong. No matter what. Don’t give in to the demons that threaten to take over.” I pulled on his hand when he looked away. “Promise you’ll talk to your therapist. To Mama, Papa, Cromwell. Just someone.”

  “Cromwell doesn’t know anything about it. Only you guys do.”

  “Then talk to us.” I stared at my brother, and worry stabbed at my brain. “How are you now?”

  “Sad,” he said, completely demolishing what was left of my useless heart. “Because of you. For you. Not because of my head.”

  Relief was a balm to the chest pain that never left. “You promise?”

  Easton smiled, making my skin warm, and held out his pinky finger. I hooked my pinky in his. “I promise.”

  I smiled and moved back against the bed. My eyelids felt heavy. “It’ll be like last time.” I rolled my head on the pillow to face Easton. He raised an eyebrow. “This upcoming surgery.” I didn’t mention that the surgery may never happen. Or that a heart may never be found. I never let myself utter those words aloud. I wouldn’t let them loose in the universe that way.

  I watched the pain of that distant hope wash over Easton’s face. But I smiled and said, “I’ll wake up and you’ll be beside me. You, Mama, Papa, and . . .”

  “And Cromwell,” Easton finished.

  I stared into my brother’s eyes and, mustering courage I didn’t know I had, said, “And Cromwell.”

  Something in his expression changed. “I think he loves you,” Easton said, knocking the wind right from my sails. My heart bounced in my chest like a basketball that was slowly deflating. I heard its dull thud and unrhythmic beat. My voice had left me. Easton held up his fist, his knuckles red. “I hit him tonight.”

  “No,” I whispered. I didn’t have the strength to say more.

  “I saw you guys in Charleston. I saw him kiss you.” Redness bloomed on my cheeks. “And I see the way you look at him.” He sighed, defeated. “And the way he looks at you.”

  “How?”

  “Like you’re his air. Like you’re the water to whatever hellfire lives inside him.”

  “East,” I hushed out, my body warming with happiness at his words.

  “I had to make sure he wasn’t gonna hurt you.” Easton pushed his cuff back up his wrist, his scar hidden once again. “I had to be sure he wasn’t gonna mess around with you.” He paused, then said sadly, “Especially now.”

  I smiled, even though my lips wobbled. “Always looking after me.”

  “Always, Bonn. I’ll always look after you.” He smiled, and it was like seeing the sun burst through a gray cloud. “I’m your big brother, remember?”

  I rolled my eyes. “By a whole four minutes.”

  He dropped his smile. “It doesn’t matter. I’m your big brother. I had to be sure he wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “He won’t.” I’d answered without thinking. But then a peace settled over me at my response. Because I knew
it was true. I knew Cromwell wouldn’t hurt me. I thought of his blue eyes, deep like the night. I thought of his messy black hair and olive skin. Of the tattoos that covered his skin. The piercings that shone when they hit the light. And my lazy heart lobbed back into its form of a steady beat.

  Cromwell Dean inspired my heart to try.

  “You like him a lot too, huh?” Easton said. When I met his eyes, my face set on fire. He’d been watching me as I thought of Cromwell.

  “He’s not what everyone thinks.” I traced the rose pattern on my bedspread with my finger. “He’s moody and curt. He was awful to me when we first met.” But then I caught the echo of his music in my head, and my body felt weightless with light. “But he’s not like that with me now.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head. “He’s . . . he shows me he cares in many ways. He holds my hand and refuses to let go. He wants to be with me, even if all we do is sit in silence. And best yet, he shows me he cares in the only way he knows how.” I stared at my piano, and I could see him sitting there in my mind’s eye, his fingers at home on the ivory keys. “He brings music to my silent world, East.” I smiled, feeling my chest shimmer. “He plays music for me that says more to my heart than his words ever could.”

  I searched for the words to express what I meant. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to convey completely what being with Cromwell had done to me. “Cromwell doesn’t speak much with his voice, but he screams what he feels with melodies and notes and the change of keys.” I took a deep breath. It barely inflated my lazy lungs, but it gave me enough air to say, “I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t seem to make him leave me, East.” I met my brother’s gaze. It was filled with tears. “I know what lies ahead. And I know how hard it will be.” I gathered my strength and said, “And I feel stronger when he’s beside me.” I pictured myself sitting next to him on the piano stool, my head lying on his muscled bicep as he played. As he told me the story of us with eighth notes and perfect fifths. “It may sound crazy. It may sound rushed and impossible . . . but he speaks to my soul. Cromwell is damaged and dark. I know it. And he has yet to let me in. But from the minute we met, his music has made it impossible for us to be apart.” I shook my head in disbelief. “He says I’m the one who inspires him to play. I’m the one who’s brought something inside him back to life.”